Only Not Really
by Ayla505x
Summary: One by one, Tony Stark reveals to the people most important to him the truth about his past. Rated for child abuse. Pepperony, Teamfic
1. Pepper

**Warning: Rated for child abuse and language.**

**This first part focuses on Pepper figuring out Tony's story. It takes place shortly after Iron Man I. All the other parts will likely take place after the Avengers. Enjoy!**

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Tony Stark, quite frankly, was a bit of an asshole. He was arrogant, narcissistic, self-righteous, and selfish.

Then came Afghanistan.

Three long, hellish months in a cave, held captive by some of the most depraved men mankind has to offer.

Tony Stark is still a bit of an asshole. Only not really.

Sure, it took a while to get used to. Pepper could tell you that herself. Ten years working for the man, and sometimes she's still tempted to think that he's just as stuck-up as he appears to be. And while it may be true (just a little bit), she always knew, even before Afghanistan, that he was one of the best men mankind had to offer. Sometimes.

The only problem was, he was never willing to show it.

And he still isn't.

It's one of the very few things that haven't changed. What with his capture, Obadiah's betrayal, and his reveal as Iron Man, so little of their routine is unaffected. Of course, Pepper still does all of his work. That'll never change. And Tony still has no sense of self-preservation, even more apparent when he comes home all bruised and bloodied. And, most worryingly (according to the board), he still isn't sleeping. At all.

It wasn't that it wasn't worrying to Pepper as well. It was just the way things had always been- Tony would work himself to exhaustion, forget to eat, and wind up passed out on the couch down in his lab. Why were they making a big deal about it now? To be fair, they weren't making a very big deal about it. But the seeds of worry had planted themselves in her mind, and now she couldn't help the nagging feeling that she needed to speak with Tony.

Looking back on it, she realized that something had been wrong for a much longer time than she'd known. Something had been wrong since before Afghanistan, since before Pepper had even worked for him. For all his bravado and showing off, there was something undeniably _wrong_ about Tony. Maybe, if she'd seen it five years earlier, it would have saved him a lot of pain. Maybe.

If Tony noticed something different today, he didn't show it. Not once did he look up from where he stood, bent over his workbench, soldering some chunk of what was presumably armor. Pepper didn't notice, but Tony could tell immediately that something was up. The sharp, staccato retort of Pepper's heels as she tapped her way across the lab was oddly hesitant, which sent off about a thousand different alarms in his head.

Instead of directly addressing him, as she usually would, she made her way over to the couch with her laptop. Without any fuss. Without even looking at him. She just sat down, flipped open her laptop, and pretended to be busy. Pretended, because Pepper did not type that fast. She was too meticulous, unwilling to allow a single grammatical mistake slide. Now, her rapid typing sounded disjointed, nervous, and much too fast.

Well, what could he do? He couldn't exactly tell her to leave, not without getting a pointy heel somewhere unpleasant. That, and he didn't really want her to leave. 'Cause then he'd just have JARVIS again and as awesome as the stuffy English robot was he quite preferred the company of Pepper Potts, thank you very much. So he didn't say anything. He went right back to what he'd been doing- what had he been doing, exactly? -and didn't look at her again. Not at all.

So the silence stretched out. After the initial tension had passed, Tony was almost able to forget his assistant was there. Almost. Every once in a while he'd get distracted by her unnatural typing, unusually hunched shoulders, lilac perfume, or the fact that he was enjoying her silent company. Honestly, she was disturbing his working environment. That was rather unprofessional of her.

"Hey, Tony," she spoke so suddenly, he jumped and had to juggle the solder iron in his hands so as not to drop it and burn himself. When finally he'd regained his composure, he looked up to see Pepper staring at him with the most unconvincing disapproving look he'd ever seen from her. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Sir has not truly slept in approximately fifty-two hours, sixteen minutes, and twenty-seven seconds. He briefly passed out on his workbench for half an hour early this morning." JARVIS answered promptly, eliciting a furious glare from Tony up at the ceiling and a grateful nod from Pepper. She said no more. And _that_, that was _terrifying_.

Tony shifted uncomfortably, wondering frantically why she hadn't blown up at him. "Uh… if it makes you any less angry, I ate just a couple of hours ago?"

The redhead looked up, eyebrows raised in concern. "I'm not angry, just worried."

"That's significantly scarier than if you were yelling at me."

"So you've told me."

"Alright, in all honesty, what are you doing down here?"

"I have papers for you to sign."

"No, you don't."

"They're in my bra."

"Okay, now that's just not fair."

"Why haven't you been able to sleep?" The sudden change from familiar, easy banter back to Pepper's interrogation is enough to leave Tony speechless. Or maybe that was simply his default reaction for whenever someone tried to get _too close_. He clammed up, changed the subject, pretending nothing was ever said.

Which was why he decided, just this once, that he was going to be honest.

"I have these… nightmares. Really bad nightmares." So what if it came out sounding a tad more pitiful than he'd meant? He didn't exactly make a habit of bearing his soul to the world, he couldn't be expected to be an expert. And judging by the way Pepper's eyebrows shot up into her hairline, she was just amazed he'd answered at all.

"Tony, you've always had nightmares." That much was very true. On many occasions, she'd entered the lab to find him passed out on the couch drenched in sweat and striking out at figments of his imagination. It took a bit of coaxing for him to wake up, but he usually seemed fine afterwards, aside from being embarrassed that she'd seen him that way at all. She hadn't thought that it'd been interfering so much with his sleeping habits. "Are… are these ones about Afghanistan?"

He'd never told her anything about what'd happened in those three months he'd been held captive, and she certainly didn't expect him to. Tony would never tell her, but he was incredibly grateful to her for that. "Sometimes," he finally answered in a grudging tone, "and sometimes they're about Obadiah."

Well, this was getting more and more surreal. Pepper just stared at him, seeming adorably confused as she tried unsuccessfully to work out why he was saying all this now. He'd never divulged so much personal information about himself before, and now seemed like an incredibly strange time to begin. Then again, it was Tony Stark; unpredictability was predictable. "Why are you telling me all this?"

Tony didn't answer for a long moment. He was no longer looking at his assistant, instead reviewing his work on the armor he'd been doing repairs on. It was how he found peace, with his hands and his mind busy, and it was how he solved problems a million miles away. "I just thought you might like to know. So you don't worry." He looked like he wanted to say something more, but thought better of it.

"But why now? Why me? Did you and Rhodey have a fight? Not that I'm complaining, I'm glad you trust me, but if there's something wrong-"

"Howard used to beat me up."

Well. She certainly hadn't expected that.

His revelation had the desired affect of making Pepper shut up, but now there was a whole new plethora of problems just around the bend. _Stupid_, he thought. Now he'd have to _talk_ to her about it and _damn it_ he really _did not_ want to talk about it maybe she'd just leave it alone and they could pretend it never happened maybe please please _please_…

She watched, in rigid silence, as Tony hunched over his table, hands clenching sporadically and quicksilver eyes for once completely still. He was completely unmovable, a man made of stone, but didn't he just look so _scared_ and that was unacceptable because Tony Stark didn't _do_ scared. She tried to think up some response, something to keep him talking, something that wouldn't make him bolt, but all she could do was mumble a dumb-sounding "what?"

"Howard beat me up and Yinsen is dead and Obie ripped out my heart, so if I'm telling you things you don't want to hear or maybe you do want to hear them I don't know what goes on in your brain but _I'm sorry_, it's fucked up and I never wanted to bring you into any of this, let alone tell you what my dad did-" Suddenly, he felt a small, cool hand resting on his arm, and he leapt back, facing Pepper the way a frightened, cornered animal would. And wasn't that just what he was, right now?

"Tony, listen, it's just me, it's Pepper," she spoke in a low, soothing voice, and he wanted to scream at her for treating him like a little kid at the same time he was crying inside because she'd come about forty years too late. "We're going to sit down on the couch and talk about this, okay?" Why did she sound like she was a second away from crying? That wasn't alright. If only to stop that from happening, he obediently followed her to the couch, but his silence only seemed to make her more upset.

She moved her laptop and motioned for him to sit down. He did, though immediately felt embarrassed for his behavior as he seemed to finally be coming back to his senses. Damn sleep depravation. In an attempt to reel back in some semblance of dignity, he gave her a little smirk that felt rigid and unnatural on his own lips. "Y'know, I've got a bed upstairs…"

"Which you are going to sleep in, _alone_, when we're done talking." Pepper spoke firmly, in the manner she adopted whenever Tony said something offensive that she knew was a defense mechanism. Damn Pepper Potts. He dropped the smirk, knowing now that it was pointless. Him and his big mouth, go blurt out your problems to the world, drive one of the three people who actually like you away, why don't you?

"How about we start at the beginning?" Pepper started. At the withering glare he shot her, she shrugged and leaned back, crossing her arms. "We can start wherever you want, but you're talking to me about this. I don't believe this is some exhaustion-fueled breakdown. This is serious and… and does anyone else know?"

"No. Not anymore." Tony answered, not looking at her. "I'm… I'm not usually this bad. Sometimes the nightmares come back, like they have lately, but I've always had Obadiah to talk to…" He trailed off. So that was what his nightmares had been about before Afghanistan. Somehow, knowing the truth didn't feel like much closure.

"Why doesn't Rhodey or Happy know? How did I not know? How didn't the press know?" _Or did they know, and just not care?_

Tony gave a snort. "Dad was careful. It seemed like no matter how drunk he was, he knew never to hit my face. Never to hit anywhere that would be easily visible. Threatened all sorts of things if I ever told anyone. Nobody ever expected a thing."

Pepper felt sick. Horribly, inconceivably sick. But she simply nodded, accepting the answer for what it was. "And… and your mother?"

That was obviously a sore spot. Tony's jaw shifted, his teeth grinding as he considered how much to disclose. His sighed once, running his hand down his face, and seemed to reach some sort of decision, like he was done hiding from her and was ready to tell her everything. "She watched."

"She… she watched?" If Pepper sounded a bit choked, a bit nauseas, he wouldn't hold it against her. He felt the same way.

"Never did anything to stop it. I used to think she was just too scared… but I eventually learned she just didn't care." He stopped talking, still not looking at Pepper. "They told me it was for my own good. That… that if he beat it into me enough, I would be better in the future. I wouldn't be a screw-up."

She wanted to tell him to stop.

"Sometimes, he let me choose what he'd beat me up with. A belt, a bat, a knife. Usually I chose the belt. The wounds were much easier to hide. I still have some scars though." She'd seen those scars. She'd always assumed they were from some sexual endeavor of the darker variety.

She wanted to throw up.

"Every once in a while, though…" he swallowed hard, blinking his eyes which suddenly seemed much too shiny. Pepper didn't want to hear what came next, but she wouldn't dare tell him to stop. "I chose the knife. Just to see if… if, if he came close to killing me… if my mom would stop him. She never did, and I kept trying, and it always _hurt so bad_, each and every time he'd cut me and she wouldn't _say anything_ and I'd lie there bleeding and she'd say _I deserved it_…"

Pepper stopped it right then and there. She pulled him into her arms, ignoring how he tensed because he must not be used to hugs or any real affection, and she held him tight. At first he was still, until his body began to convulse with very fine tremors. Those soulful brown eyes slammed shut as he allowed himself to be held as he cried for what very well may be the first time in his life.

He sobbed against her, and she let her own tears fall. Everything made sense, and as much as she hated herself for thinking it, she was grateful she finally knew. All the trust issues, all the strange little quirks, the nightmares, the way he sometimes flinched from peoples' touch- it could all be boiled down to the secret that Tony Stark kept at the core of his being. The one he had told her because she was the only thing left in his life that he knew would never, ever betray him.

"You'll be alright," she whispers, because she knows that right now he's not. Tortured by the memory of people who should have been there, who should have loved him. "I'll make it alright, I promise." Well, if she had to make up for that lack of love, she would.

"Please…" he murmurs so brokenly she feels a new wave of tears building behind her eyes. What he was asking for, she wasn't sure. She was pretty sure he didn't know, either. But she nodded all the same, kissing the top of his head and holding him tightly.

"I won't leave you alone again."

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**Please review!**


	2. Bruce

Many things could be said about Tony Stark. But it could never be doubted that he was prepared for anything- _"Hi, my name's Tony Stark, paranoid bastard. Nice to meet you."_

Which was why it didn't make sense. Not to any of them. Because even though the team had only been together for a short time, living together as a family, they knew without a doubt that Tony would always have the solution.

So why, after what should have been a simple destroy-the-mutant-alien-creatures mission, had a hundred people died?

Where had Tony been?

And where was he now?

On the way back home on the Heli-carrier, Tony had been silent. Completely and utterly silent, which was unusual in and of itself. Even as the rest of the team interrogated him, he stared off into nothing and refused to reply. Steve had gotten angry, and had snapped something about his complete lack of responsibility for his actions. Tony had flinched. He'd flinched, and he'd fled, and they hadn't seen him since.

Bruce wondered what could have gone wrong. It wasn't like the team didn't trust him; they'd given him ample opportunity to explain himself. But he'd been unwilling to, almost as though he was afraid of their judgment.

Having arrived at the Avengers' tower, the team had gone to their individual floors as usual after a hard mission, seeking the ample privacy the massive building had to offer. There was still no sign of Tony, though Bruce suspected he'd left the Heli-carrier before the rest of the team.

Bruce was alone in the large community kitchen, sitting at the table and staring down at his cup of tea. He drummed his fingers on the table absently, pursed his lips, and checked his watch. Exactly two minutes had passed since the last time he did that. Exactly one minute passed before he did it again. Then thirty-two seconds.

This really was going to keep him up all night.

With a resigned sigh, Bruce stood, drained the rest of his tea, and placed the cup on the counter. He was just deciding to go to his room and at least try to get some sleep, when he heard a sudden crash. The noise startled him enough that green flashed across his eyes for a moment, but he quickly brought his breathing back under control.

"Sir is currently in his downstairs lab." JARVIS's cool British voice spoke up, concern tingeing his usual indifferent tone. "Your assistance is required immediately, though I would appreciate it if you did not let him know that I summoned you."

For the umpteenth time that day, Bruce cursed the stars that Pepper wasn't here and instead was off on a business meeting. She was always able to bring Tony out of whatever hole he'd managed to dig himself into. Alas, it seemed to be up to him. Wasting no time, he ran to the lift and hurriedly clicked the button that would lead him to the ground floor. "You'd better get me there quick, JARVIS," he grumbled under his breath.

"I will do my best, Sir." The AI responded, and immediately Bruce felt the floor give way as he plummeted at a seemingly breakneck speed down the shaft. Just as he was sure he'd meet his untimely death at the bottom, the descent began to slow minutely. Then a little more, until finally they'd slowed to a crawl. The lift's door opened with a _ding_, and Bruce exited as soon as his rebelling stomach would allow.

Upon reaching the extensive glass wall of the lab, Bruce discovered that the door was already open. JARVIS must have ignored his master's security protocols in order to get help as soon as possible. If that wasn't enough to worry Bruce, nothing was. Upon entering the room, he was aware first of the cloying scent of alcohol. No surprise there, really. Then, slowly, he began to realize what was different about the lab.

The usual organized chaos of the lab was in ruins. Tables and chairs and numerous inventions and trinkets had been upturned. Papers and books were scattered, torn pages drifting lazily over the floor. Broken bottles of whiskey lay in puddles. Sparks issued from cables that had been torn.

Bruce whistled through his teeth. "Oh, boy." He walked, as though in a dream, over the decimated floor, pushing aside rubbish and stepping over anything that sparked. "Tony?" The doctor called out, unnerved by the eerie silence of the lab. The lights above flickered, casting gruesome shadows over the walls from the discarded carcasses of what had once been complex mechanisms of some sort.

In the murky shadows, Bruce could faintly see the outline of a figure hunched against the wall, eerily still and silent. "Tony?" He approached slowly, finally able to make out more of the slumped form. His hair was disheveled, as though he'd run his fingers through it or had tried to tear it out by its roots. Bruises mottled his arms and face, and numerous cuts stood out on his hands. In one fist he gripped a half-empty bottle of whiskey, which he stared at with eyes glassy and unfocused.

"Tony…" Bruce repeated again, kneeling in front of the other man. He didn't even look at him. Feeling panic begin to rise in his throat, the fellow scientist placed his hand on Tony's shoulder. Still nothing. "Tony." He shook his shoulder. Not even a twitch. Unable to stand the silence any longer, _not from Tony he's not ever silent ever_, Bruce found himself beginning to panic in earnest. "_Tony!_"

The bottle fell from his hand with an ear-splitting crash as it shattered on the floor. Tony flinched violently from the unexpected shout, raising his arms and kicking out as his muscles tensed and his face betrayed the terror coursing through him. Bruce leapt away, though not before earning a hard kick to the shin. Recognizing the wild flailing as a panic attack, Bruce sought through his medical knowledge, trying to reach a solution that would draw his friend back to the real world.

Slowly, he approached again, not even attempting to avoid the flailing limbs that were trying to keep him at bay. He winced as a well-aimed fist collided with the side of his jaw, but he persevered until he grasped Tony's shoulders. "Tony," he spoke softly, calmly, looking straight into those wild brown eyes. "You need to listen to me. You're in New York, not… wherever it is you think you are. You're safe. You're home."

He only struggled for another minute or so, before his panicked breathing steadied out, sounding somewhat ragged. Bruce pulled him into a somewhat awkward half-hug, Tony's forehead pressed against his shoulder as he fought to control the shivering of his body. "'M sorry." He slurred, "'m sorry, 'm sorry, 'm sorry…" He repeated it like a mantra, all the while shaking his head against Bruce's shoulder.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep, steadying breath, Bruce asked the question he'd been wondering since the battle. "Tony, what happened?"

"Din't have a choice." Came the drunken reply, scathing and sounding much more like usual Tony, if you ignored the slight tremor. "Could only save one… my mic broke, I couln't tell you but there were two buildings… had to choose the one with more people, din't have a choice…wasn't fast enough, there were bombs, 'm so sorry…"

Bruce had to work to control the persistent shaking of his body as he held off the Other Guy. Why he was so angry, he honestly wasn't sure, but Tony seemed to think it was directed at him. He shrank back, suddenly shy to even Bruce's friendly touch. He stared at his friend with eyes that suddenly sobered, defensive and wearing a familiar mask that didn't quite hide his fear. "Told you I'm sorry," he muttered slowly, inching away, gaze darting away and back.

Confusion and concern were now warring for Bruce's attention. Tony had never shown any fear of the Other Guy before, and Bruce had always assumed it was because of the trust he'd put in him to keep his anger in check. Perhaps he didn't trust him as much as he'd though. Or perhaps it was something much deeper. Either way, the first thing he had to deal with was Tony's typical self-destructive way of dealing with things. "Nobody blames you, Tony. I understand now, and I know it was just an accident. You should've talked to us, instead of hiding out down here and drinking yourself half-blind."

"I couldn't." The other man answered immediately, still eyeing him warily with an expression that refused to be swayed. "I couldn't tell you. I couldn't…"

"Why?" The other scientist murmured, perplexed.

"What if it'd been someone I knew in that building?" Tony went on, not seeming to hear Bruce's question. "What if I'd chosen the wrong one? What if it'd been you or… or…" He gulped, his voice suddenly shaking uncontrollably. "What if it'd been _Pepper_? There was a woman there, she died, a young woman, red hair, beautiful, what if it'd been Pepper?" He dug his hands into his hair, tugging incessantly, eyes shut tight as he dwelled on all of his 'what ifs'. "I couldn't tell you, 'cause you'd say it wasn't my fault, and it was, it was, _it was!_"

"Why would you say that?" Bruce snarled back, feeling the steadily growing anger inside him erupt forward so his voice had a predominately Hulk-ish quality. Tony shrank from him again, and that enraged him further. He wasn't angry at Tony. Honestly, he wasn't sure he ever could be. He was angry because this _was_ Tony, when nobody cared enough about him to see what was wrong. "Why wouldn't you trust us to help you?!"

"Because it's _not you!_" Tony shot back. "You guys aren't the problem! You were never the problem!"

"Then _what is it_, Tony? Why can't you tell us?" His voice suddenly quieted as the physician managed to rein his temper back in, staring earnestly with only the slightest hint of green left in his eyes.

"…Why would you care?" Tony's voice was even quieter than Bruce's. "Mom never did. Why would you?" Silence followed the words as he gathered his bearings and pressed on. "Howard could wail on me all he wanted and she didn't care. She blamed me, and that made it easier, 'cause it would've hurt more if I knew she cared and she still didn't help."

It suddenly struck Bruce how unfair it was to confront Tony on this when he was drunk. His control of what he said was severely compromised, and there was no doubt that this information would have remained undisclosed had he been sober. That, and if he was honest with himself, he really _did not_ want to hear this. He needed to know it, that was for sure- but knowing that and hearing it were two very different things.

Tony stared dumbly, his dancing eyes never focusing on one place. He was tensed, as though ready to be struck, and carefully angled away from Bruce. He'd be lying if he said that it didn't hurt to see a grown man looking so lost.

"I'm not your father." Bruce murmured, frustrated when his voice came out sounding scratchy with emotion. He knew a thing or two about abusive fathers, but he'd come to terms with that particular demon long ago. This was like looking into a mirror that showed him himself, from that time years ago. _How much worse did you have it, Tony?_ He wondered to himself. _How did it feel when they pretended not to notice? Or did nobody actually know?_

"T's a shame." The other man whispered in reply, not meeting his gaze. Slowly, the tension was beginning to bleed out of him, trickling away like water from a cormorant's feathers. And if that sentence didn't just about do him in, he wasn't sure what would. Bruce had to blink rapidly for several moments if only to retain some semblance of control. "I mean it," Tony continued adamantly. "You would've been there."

"Yeah, Tony, I would've." Bruce answered, swiping away the stray tear that had managed to get past his defense. "You know I would've, and I'm sorry I couldn't be, but I'm here for you now, okay? I'm here for you, Pepper's here for you, our teammates are here for you. You don't need to run away anymore. Not from us."

Tony didn't say anything. Instead, he began struggling to his feet. Bruce straightened to help him, holding out a hand to hoist him up from the ground. The other man stumbled as he attempted to regain his balance, leaning minutely on Bruce for support. "Thanks," Tony mumbled, though whether for the physical or emotion support he wasn't sure. "'N 'm sorry."

Bruce gave a mirthless little smile that didn't reach his eyes as he began to lead Tony to his room. "It wasn't your fault." He enforced. "_None_ of this was your fault, and don't you ever feel like it was."

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**Seven lovely reviews, the last chapter got! And as is my tradition, I shall now list those who reviewed in appreciation.**

**Oceanbreeze7, AvengerRedHuntress, Guest, Coboe, jack2724, Rose, and fyefan0. Thank you all very much for your kind words!**

**So, what do you guys think about adding a chapter featuring Loki? It'd be a short one, and there wouldn't likely be any dialogue, but Oceanbreeze7 suggested it and I feel it would make a nice addition. Thoughts?**

**Please review~!**


	3. Clint

When Tony Stark has free time, other people are either benefited or warned to run away before they lose their minds to the constant whirling tornado that is Tony at work, or occasionally, at play.

Clint had occasionally spied on Tony through the vents as he worked on his armor or on an upgrade for some piece of equipment. He moved with the grace of the lion tamers he'd so often assisted in the circus, dancing and dipping with his hands everywhere at once hammering and welding and creating. His mood changed at the drop of a dime, from a steady intensity to a raging, fiery passion to a soft, almost gentle litany that sprung from his fingers in a complete contrast to the heavy rock music playing in the background.

He wasn't a spy or an assassin. He didn't have the feline agility that had been trained into Clint and Natasha. His was a different kind of grace, like fire to their ice. It wasn't trained or fluent or quick as lightning, but was natural and staggered and steady. He was a machine that ran on coffee and booze and the occasional Chinese takeout, a machine that drowned out the noise of the world with noise of his own.

When he wasn't working, Tony wasn't much different. He had a quick tongue that could scald or soothe depending on his mood- generally, the snarkier he was, the better his mood- and he moved with the deliberate intent of someone who'd done it his whole life. He would crack a joke or fire a winning smile and make the world fall in love with him and hate him completely, because he was Tony Stark.

But those years of posing for the camera had taken their toll on him. The masks he'd carefully constructed had become a part of him, and many times it seemed he believed them himself. Tony reminded Clint of a clown, putting on a silly face to amuse the masses but wishing only to get away from it all, to escape to that lab where he may be free from the prying eyes of those who documented his every move.

Except for Clint, of course.

Even since moving into the new home of the Avengers, he'd made it his duty to scope out every possible hiding place in the vents. Tony, to his credit, had made the place reminiscent of a maze; Clint would be lying if he said he didn't feel right at home. The lab, he'd found, was basically impenetrable. Why, Clint wasn't sure, but it was a challenge he was determined to pursue.

JARVIS wouldn't budge when asked about the lockdown on the lab. That was to be expected, but it hadn't hurt to try. Pepper was strangely protective and became defensive when asked about it. That sent off about a hundred alarms in his head. Bruce turned green for a moment, so questioning him further was out of the question.

Eventually, he'd gone to Natasha about it, which in hindsight he probably should have just done in the first place. She told him the story of Obadiah, Tony's apparently-foster-father-figure who'd quite literally ripped out his heart while he was in the lab. Well, that certainly was a good reason to keep the place cut off from the outside world. He could respect that.

Only not really.

'Cause if Clint was going to live here, he was going to see what Tony got up to in that lab of his.

The first thing he found when trying to creep in was a security door with a letter pad on the side. _In the air vents_. Sure enough, there was a note on the door, written in Tony's nearly illegible scrawl: _"One does not simply crawl into Mordor!"_

He was going to have to find that code.

He began with good old-fashioned guessing. It was a nine-letter word. Airplanes? Nope. Ventilate? No. Supercali- this wasn't working. Context clues, Barton. Use context clues.

Tonystark? Surprisingly, that wasn't it. Avengerss? No, he wasn't sure why there would be two s's. Suddenly, something occurred to him. He wasn't sure why, and for a moment he attempting to banish the inkling from his mind. But it was worth a shot, so he slowly dialed into the nine words.

Birdbrain.

_ACCESS GRANTED_, the screen flashed in big green letters.

_Oh_, he was going to _kill_ Tony.

Gingerly, he continued crawling through the vents. Upon seeing light up ahead, he moved forward until he came upon the grate above Tony's workshop. Sure enough, looking down, he could see the billionaire as he tinkered with what looked to be some incredibly badass new arrows.

It became part of Clint's regular routine to sneak down through the vents to watch Tony work. There was something hypnotic about watching the man immersed in the thing he'd dedicated most of his life to. It was also very insightful, as he'd never realized just how much time Tony put into making sure his teammates were safe. He made armor for Steve and Thor, new bows and arrows for Clint, custom-made daggers for Natasha, and stretchy pants for Bruce. It seemed like he never rested.

On one occasion, he did. Well, he didn't really rest, so much as he dropped his hammer to the floor in the middle of his work, sat down heavily in his chair, and stared off into the distance. His fingers drummed at the casing of the arc reactor, which glowed beneath his thin black t-shirt. Clint had come to recognize this as a sign that the billionaire had something on his mind.

"Hey, JARVIS?" The man looked up, and Clint shrunk back, worried he would be spotted.

There was a slight pause, as though the A.I. knew that whatever its creator wanted to ask, it couldn't be good. "Yes, sir?"

"That video, the one with… with Dad. The whole "my greatest creation" thing… was that real?" He spoke quickly, sharply, like he knew the answer but could not bring himself to accept it, not quite yet.

Another pause, much longer this time, in which one could nearly hear the robotic butler's long intake of breath. "If sir is referring to the authenticity of the video in question, then yes, the video is indeed real." A long, shuddering breath escaped the creator, who ceased his drumming on the arc reactor's casing. "There was no tampering with the content of Howard Stark's message." The paused stretched on, and not a sound was made. "…It was real." JARVIS repeated, softly and almost gently.

Tony closed his eyes for a long, tense moment, before standing up in a way that was much too slow, much too stiff. Butterfingers reached out tentatively with one robotic arm, whirring in concern. The man stroked the robot's arm gently as he passed, but didn't even look at it he exited the lab. "Going to get some shut-eye. You kids be good." He muttered as he shut the door behind him.

For sometime afterward, Clint sat there in the vents, thinking over what he'd seen. "Master Barton, Master Stark has requested your presence on the shooting range. It would appear that he decided against some much-needed sleep." The robotic voice made Clint jumped and blinked sheepishly, realizing he likely should have known that JARVIS had always known his whereabouts. "Uh- yeah. Tell him I'll be right there."

* * *

A half hour later, the two men were out on the shooting range, Clint practicing with some of his new (and incredibly badass) explosive arrows, while Tony recorded results on his Stark tablet. The two men joked and discussed important things – like what pranks to pull on Natasha without getting killed – interspersed regularly with periods of silence from Tony in which he either stroked his beard in concentration as he watched the bows' explosions when they hit their targets, or he stared off into the distance.

"Hey, man, where you keep running off to?" Clint finally asked after the third time this happened. Tony blinked and shook himself, giving Clint a disarming grin and changing the subject, not answering his teammate's question.

Eventually their conversation drifted to Natasha and Clint. Clint claimed that they had known each other forever, and it was unlikely anything would happen between them. Tony smirked at that, told him that he wasn't so sure about that. The two were practically inseparable at the best of times, and if one of them was having any sort of trouble, they were pretty much glued to one another. Now, with a place to call home, their relationship would almost certainly escalate to the next level.

Pepper came up next, and Clint was immediately glad she did. Some of the mist that had been hanging over Tony seemed to dissipate at the mention of her name, and he had the softest smile on his face as he spoke about her. It was only when Clint mentioned children that Tony clammed up again, going right back to diligently recording his notes on the tablet.

Clint sighed and let the bow drop down to his side as he turned to Tony, who looked up with a mild expression of confusion. "Come on, man. What's eating you? You've been acting strange the whole time we've been out here."

And just like that, all the defenses went up. One could practically see years of practice rise up again to encompass the genius, swathing him in a protective shield while his black expression didn't budge an inch. For a moment it seemed that he wouldn't answer, but when he finally did his voice was constricted and forcibly light. "Just thinking about some new upgrades to… uh, stuff. I make a lot of that, so, you know, a lot of upgrades."

It wasn't unusual for Tony to be a bit (a lot) scatterbrained, but the forced nature of this particular ramble but wasn't slipping by unnoticed. "Uh-huh. And I suppose it doesn't have anything to do with your little incident down in the lab, right?"

Clint wasn't stupid. Of course he'd make the connection. And sure enough, Tony did too, as realization hit him. "You found the…?" He crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively, looking away as his jaw shifted. "So, how long ago did you find it?"

Well aware that Tony was deflecting the issue at hand again, Clint decided to humor him anyway. "A couple of weeks ago."

"You weren't supposed to find it out that quickly." And if Tony Stark was at all impressed, he sure as hell wasn't going to show it. There was a long silence, in which it became apparent that Clint wouldn't be dropping the subject. "Look, it was just supposed to be something for you to do. I know you and Natasha are all about the whole secret-assassin-pop-out-of-nowhere thing, and I knew you liked to hide in vents you freaky bird thing and I thought you might be interested…" He trailed off, staring at the ground.

"My dad was pretty awful too, you know." Clint said once the billionaire had stopped babbling. He hefted his bow and again and nocked another arrow, sending it flying at the straw dummy some hundred yards in front of him. The dummy exploded spectacularly, sending debris flying down across the range. "When my mom died, he just kind of changed. Beat the hell out of me and my brother, Barney." He could feel Tony's gaze burning into the back of his head. "We ran away and joined the circus. Never saw the guy again."

Another few shots, another few dummies going up in flames. "I'm still not sure how I feel about that." Clint continued, forcing himself to meet Tony's gaze. The other man's eyes were wide and intent, hanging on every word Clint spoke, as though something he said was actually worthwhile. He liked that feeling, and it was rather funny coming from Tony Stark. "Sometimes I still wonder what changed. 'Cause I know that something did. He used to be a good guy, really." He swallowed hard. "In the end, I'm pretty sure he thought he was right."

Tony shuffled his feet restlessly on the ground, and at first Clint thought it was him trying to find something to say. However, he saw the shaking of Tony's shoulders and the smile pulling at his lips. Immediately, Clint bristled. "Look, I was just trying to help, but if you're going to be an asshole about it-"

"No!" Tony said immediately, the smile dropping. "It's not… it's not that. I just…" He smirked again, covering his mouth with one hand. "Didn't mean to ruffle your feathers."

Clint knew he should be angry, but he simply couldn't find it in himself to be anything of the kind. He shoved Tony's shoulder roughly, laughing himself.

"In all seriousness, though," Tony continued, his face suddenly serious. "I'm not… thank you." He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's… it's nice when… when someone, you know, at least tries to…"

"Understand?" Clint finished, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah." A relieved smile found its way to Tony's face. "It's been bugging me. I assume you know at least a little bit about what I'm talking about, since you were so kindly spying on me, which I allowed you to do but still… I needed to hear that. And it's a little bit funny, 'cause I guess I didn't know just… just _how much_ I needed to hear it."

For the rest of the time they were on the shooting range, not a word more of their fathers' was spoken. They went right back to silly banter, and Tony no longer drifted off. He seemed more comfortable now, like some weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Later on, sitting alone in his lab, he again watched his father's video, listening to his words again and again. _"My greatest creation is you."_ And he thought over Clint's words, his own experiences. _"In the end, I'm pretty sure he thought he was right."_

It didn't make it alright. Hell, nothing would ever make it alright, of that he was fairly sure. But it was nice that someone else was there. Someone else felt the same, asked themselves the same questions. "Freaking birdbrain." Tony muttered, smirking to himself as he shut off the video. It didn't answer any questions. If anything, it only raised more. But that was okay. For now, everything was okay, and he didn't question it.

* * *

**Hello again, dear readers. I saw Iron Man 3. I am still dying inside. Please excuse me.**

**My reviewers for the last chapter were:**

**Avengerscrazygal, alphito, Rose, princessjen211101, jack2724, Tomb8y1084629, KRAlover, GirlFromNorth, Guest, youwannabekate, Heart Of Vengeance, LaNaturalBreezeOf-Books, NEEED, marianne, YouWILLbealright, PlushChrome, mad 4 the doctor, TheNightIsDark, skylaeatpie, and demonablackwolf.**

**Guys, that's a lot.**

**Um... I had something I wanted to address, like really I did, but I don't remember. Hm.**

**Anyway, please review!**


	4. Phil

Coulson didn't fuck around.

It was a universal truth that each and every one of the Avengers had come to learn at one time or another. When it came to his team, Coulson would move the Earth and stars and even confront Fury if it meant keeping them relatively safe. So it was to be expected that they would trust him with their everything.

Only not really.

Because the moment he met Tony Stark, met him in all his belligerent glory before he was called to join the Avengers, he could tell right away that he was going to have his work cut out for him. And it wasn't because of said belligerence or the palpable aura of brokenness around him noticeable only to those trained to see such things. It was the steadfast resolve he had to _not_ be broken, to _not_ stray from his path ever again. Such resolve meant the strongest possible warrior and the worst possible underling.

Obviously, Coulson's prediction was spot-on, if Steve Rogers' account was anything to go by. Tony Stark was volatile and cantankerous and as brave as they came.

So why didn't he ever take the things Coulson handed him?

It was a stupid thing to be bothered about, stupid to even think twice about. Natasha had passed it off as a harmless quirk, and after what seemed to be a lifetime of dealing with her and Clint's issues, he should have been confident that she would know what she was talking about. Everyone had quirks, she insisted, perhaps a bit more forcefully than was strictly necessary. Perhaps that should have been a warning.

Pepper was stiff and unresponsive when questioned. She said she had a theory, but that Coulson would have to figure it out for himself. She wasn't about to spill Tony's secrets out for the world to see. Bruce's response was similar, but somewhat more… green, in nature. Clint had looked at him a long time, searching in that way he did, a hawk deciding its angle, a hunter searching for motive. He also said to ask Tony, which likely meant whatever test had been set, Coulson had passed.

Coulson didn't bother with the rest of the team, because the truth was if those three people didn't know, then nobody did.

He also noticed something else that was rather peculiar; these three were the only ones allowed to hand Tony anything. Not to say that he didn't flinch or hesitate or snatch whatever it was they were holding away at a speed that made his hands blur. But he actually _took_ things from them, and from Colonel Rhodes as well.

Honestly, it didn't matter _why_ Tony didn't like to be handed things. If he didn't want to talk about it, then hell, Coulson wasn't about to make him. He wasn't a therapist, anyway. But the fact of the matter was that this 'harmless quirk' could prove to be a real detriment in the midst of battle. Whatever it was, it had to be cured.

* * *

He began with a simple test.

Coulson entered the Avengers tower one evening to find that it happened to be movie night. The team was crowded around a ridiculously large television in one of the numerous spacious living areas, watching what was most likely _Star Wars_.

Most of the team was sprawled on the enormous couch and armchairs, but Tony was at the bar, pouring himself a drink. When Coulson came in carrying a clipboard, Tony looked up and raised his glass in greeting. "Agent. Nice of you to show up to this gala occasion. Though I'm pretty sure I put the 'Superheroes Only' sign up on the door."

Clint snorted, but the rest of the team was too absorbed in the movie to pay any attention to the exchange.

Coulson gave his best corporate smile, keeping it short and businesslike. "Sorry about showing up uninvited. I just have a form for you to sign."

"Yeah, sure," Tony answered, not even looking at the SHIELD agent. "Just set it on the counter there."

"Actually, I'm kind of in a hurry." Coulson pressed, holding the paper out away from his body.

Tony looked at him then, hesitation, annoyance, and the slightest hint of fear warring for dominance in his eyes. His expression didn't change though, and he straightened up, turning to face Coulson fully. "Okay. Hand it over."

So Coulson held out the clipboard with the paper on it. Tony reached forward, his fingers brushed the clipboard, gripped it for a second, and then it went clattering down onto the ground.

The billionaire grinned, a bit too quickly, a bit too widely, a bit too sheepishly. "Sorry about that. Guess I haven't gotten enough sleep lately." He stooped down to pick up the items he'd dropped, signed the form, and handed it back to Coulson without further incident.

Coulson left, none the wiser but more determined than ever.

His second attempt came three days later. He entered Tony's workshop while Bruce was away, carrying a blueprint that he claimed needed to be revised. It was elaborate, and as Coulson explained the situation, the billionaire was obviously very interested. So Coulson held out the blueprint towards him, and waited for the inevitable decline.

Tony reached out, touched the paper, and then jerked back suddenly as though he'd been burned. "You know, I just remembered, I, uh… I've got something to do." He bowed out just like that, tried his best to grin, and all but ran from the room.

So far, he hadn't gotten anywhere.

* * *

Tony was well aware that Coulson had good intentions.

Hell, if the man had murdered him in his sleep, he'd still stick to the explanation that he'd had good intentions.

But he couldn't do it. It wasn't… it wasn't something that could be forced. Besides, it was just a reflex, just like (_stopping to take a deep breath when he steps into the shower because there's water all around him and he's back in Afghanistan and they're holding him under or freaking out when he awakes in a hospital 'cause what if he's in the middle of another surgery and they're cutting open his chest and removing ribs and implanting metal or hearing a high-pitched noise and wanting to duck and run because Obie will be standing there and he'll rip his heart out again_) all the other quirks that made him a little bit _different_.

Yeah, he was screwed up. Yeah, there were only a couple of people he took things from. But he didn't even _think_ about it with them. They held something out, he took it. Simple as that. He didn't even realize what was happening.

Then someone else did it and he froze.

And Coulson wasn't _fucking_ giving up.

The third time it happened, Coulson caught Tony in his/Pepper's/his office in the tower, tinkering with a little something he'd meant to give to his girlfriend as a gift. At this point however, it wasn't looking much like the specialized pepper shaker he'd planned for it to be. He also didn't remember why he'd felt that it would be so funny.

So Coulson showed up, arms overflowing with papers, calm and collected as ever. He sat the papers down on the desk, and before he could even pick one up, Tony spoke.

"I don't like to be handed things." He said, gauging the feigned look of surprise on the agent's face.

"Oh, really? I hadn't noticed." He picked up one paper and held it out, his eyes steady and challenging and his eyebrows raised to inquisitive peaks, daring him to take the _damn paper_ already.

But he can't. His hands are frozen claws at his sides, scarred and damaged and testament to why it's not a good idea to take things from people.

The first time, he was three. Howard, drunk off his ass, handed him a red-hot iron that he swore up and down was safe. It seared through the fragile skin, melting and tearing and sizzling. Those scars were small now, so small, and faded, as was the memory.

The second time, he was five. In a manic rage, Howard held out Tony's favorite Captain America action figure in front of him. Tony reached to take it. Howard grabbed his wrist and snapped it, eliciting a scream that cut off abruptly with a clout from the inventor, who scolded him for not being a man.

The third time, he was six. His mother handed him a strange drink that made him dizzy and uncoordinated and woozy and made him awaken with a splitting headache and terrible nausea.

The fourth time, he was nine, and a kind-looking woman handed him a piece of candy. Reaching to take it, the woman grabbed Tony in a bruising grip and tried to drag him away with her, her sharp fingernails digging bloody furrows in his arm. She was stopped by his irate father, who refused to get Tony's wounds inspected. They became infected. Long, pale scars now laced up his left arm.

The fifth time, he was ten, and Howard handed him a tray full of numerous science experiments and told him to move it to another table where it would be out of the way. A vial of caustic acid spilled over Tony's hand, leaving cratered bubbles still visible on his knuckles.

The sixth time, he was twelve, and at a business party with his parents. Trying too hard to be a man like his father wanted him to be, he took a drink from one of Howard's business partners. He awoke the next day bruised and sore all over, with no idea what had happened.

The seventh time, he was fourteen, and a man came at his father with a knife. Sure, it wasn't technically being handed to him, but Tony still jumped to take the blade in his hand and redirect it. His father was saved, but Tony's hand was terribly mutilated. It was a miracle it worked at full capacity. And all he had was an ugly, bumpy scar to show.

The eighth time, he was fifteen, and he was handed a paper. What for, he wasn't sure, but it couldn't have been too dangerous. So he took it. Another man materialized behind him, knocked him out with chloroform, and with three kidnappers he stayed for two weeks because his father refused to pay the ransom. Memories of those two weeks were locked away somewhere in the deepest, darkest recesses of his brain, never to be reawakened.

In the rest of the time until he inherited his father's company, numerous other occasions popped up that were well detailed on the mosaic of scars that were his hands.

So no, he did not like to be handed things.

"Tony." Coulson spoke sternly, but his face remained the same. "This has to stop. You are a liability as long as this continues."

Tony flinches violently, and for a moment Coulson feels bad for saying it when, if one was completely honest, Tony was the most indispensable of them all. And it wasn't just the money and connections and the weapons, though those were all incredibly helpful. It was the fact that he'd given the Earth's mightiest team of outcasts a place to call home.

People overestimated Tony's feelings of self-worth.

He honestly believed he could be replaced.

There was no way to retract the statement now, and even if there was, Coulson wasn't sure he would. Not when it was obviously the thing that made Tony steel himself, unclench the sporadically twitching fists at his sides. Of course he felt he needed to prove himself, and if that included taking what was handed to him, he'd do it.

As Tony reached out, Coulson found himself fascinated by the overlapping shiny white lines across his knuckles and palms. Scars and craters swirling, looking like a city from above or a galaxy in the sky. They were an engineer's hands, a warrior's hands, an artist's hands, the hands of a weary traveler.

An outcast's hands.

He touched the paper, and there _was burning and slicing and freezing and his bone was snapping and his head was swimming and there were nails in his arm and his flesh was melting away and they hurt him somehow what happened and he tried to save the man he hated and_ don't go there don't go there don't go there stop stopstopstop-

Then he was holding the paper and he was just fine.

Coulson's arms were outstretched, as though he was ready to catch the other man should he fall. As Tony steadied himself, Coulson let his arms drop, raising his brows questioningly.

"Do it again." The billionaire muttered, his voice hoarse.

For half and hour the two men practiced this. Coulson would hand Tony a paper. Tony would hesitate. Tony would reach out, touch it, stiffen for a moment and close his eyes, open them to find the paper in his hand. Not a word was spoken the entire time, and by the end, Tony managed to mute the flashbacks to a tiny echo in the back of his mind.

For weeks, it went on this way. Every several days Coulson would appear with a new object or two, and they would practice passing it back and forth. Sometimes he hesitated, sometimes he didn't. His teammates began to notice the change in him. He was taking things directly from their hands, as though it was no big deal. He never told them what was happening, because quite honestly he was rather embarrassed about it, but he was glad they noticed.

Three weeks from that first session, and Coulson could tell that this would be the last time. Tony took the pen from his hand without even looking at it, didn't stiffen or hesitate or show any sign of distress. It was finally over.

As Coulson was about to leave, Tony waved him back. "Phil? I, uh…" He scratched the back of his head, gesturing helplessly in the air with his other hand. "You're… you're good." He blinked stupidly, and grimaced at the agent's somewhat amused expression. "I mean… you, you helped. You didn't just help, you made me better, so uh… you're good. A good… person."

"Mister Stark, are you trying to say 'thank you'?" Coulson implored.

By way of answer, Tony gave a rueful smile that spoke nothing of happiness. He stared down at his hands, scarred and beautiful, for just a moment. "People always ask for something in return, if you say thank you. Usually, it's not something I can give. But I mean… whatever, whatever you want, I guess."

"Tony, I don't want anything from you." Coulson answered, noting the other man's surprised look. "You are part of my team and will remain so as long as I have anything to say about it. I wanted to help. I wanted you at full capacity to care for your family and yourself on the battlefield. I wanted you at full capacity to live this life you're making for yourself."

Tony nodded slowly, obviously not finding anything suitable to say in response. "Thanks," he finally managed, smiling tentatively, genuinely. "Really. Thank you."

"It's no problem, Tony." Coulson smiled back, left without a word, and the two never spoke of those three weeks again.

* * *

**First of all, I would like to apologize for the horrendously long wait. I had the whole thing written, but like the idiot I am I saved over it and was way too busy to rewrite it. Seriously, why in highschool must they make the freshman exams so difficult? It's like, dude, I just got here. **

**Also, I avoid canon like the plague.**

**My wonderful reviewers for the last chapter include: Avengerscrazygal, YouWILLbealright (lovely username, btw), jack2724, Lollypops101, AlienTourist, Demon Hunter Zoro, AvengerRedHuntress, PlushChrome, Olympus97, Harm Marie, MRose5, Lolxxx, Mrs Capt Jack Sparrows, bookfreak1317, and one Guest reviewer.**

**Now, quite a few of you have expressed your interest in Steve's chapter. I must warn you in advance that Steve's chapter will be second-to-last, so not for a long time yet. Sorry about that! However, Harley will get his own chapter, so I hope that makes up for it~**

**Thank you all for your continued support, and please remember to review!**


	5. Rhodey

**Takes place after IM1.**

* * *

"So, you want to explain to me why Pepper's suddenly allowed to sneak up from behind and practically tackle you?" Colonel Rhodes drawled, dragging a long swig from his beer.

Tony looked up from his own drink, eyeing his oldest friend and trying to decide if there was a note of jealousy in his tone. The bar was crowded and loud and people kept glancing at him and whispering, and it didn't make him nearly as nervous as it had when he'd first returned from Afghanistan. He was getting better, slowly but surely. "Because I realized recently that she is, indeed, female. Did you have any idea?"

The soldier snorted. "You've hardly touched a woman since you got back." When Tony didn't answer, Rhodes pressed on. "I mean, ever since I've known you you've had every phobia under the sun. No one's ever been allowed to approach you from behind or hand you anything. And it got a hell of a lot worse after Afghanistan. And after Obadiah… it's kind of a wonder you're still functioning."

Tony hadn't quite realized how much he missed Rhodey's brutal honesty. It'd kept him grounded on more than one occasion when he was having trouble seeing the bigger picture or keeping things in perspective. "Pepper, she's… she's helping. Helping me." _No change there._

"Yeah, I gathered that." For a long moment, Rhodes stared with dark, searching eyes as his oldest friend pointedly looked away. "Hey man, I get that you don't want to talk about what happened over there. If you talked with Pepper about it, that's none of my business. But the old stuff, the stuff you've been carrying since I knew you… you told her, didn't you?"

It wasn't an accusation. That is, it didn't _sound_ like an accusation, more like a statement, blankly accepting if somewhat bitter. Tony frowned, twirling his own drink on the bar as he debated how to answer. "Yeah, I told her. But it wasn't like I… like I planned to, or anything. I just kind of broke. So much had happened, and the nightmares were pretty much unbearable-"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Tony." Rhodey interrupted, the bitter tone gone and replaced with placating concern. "I'm not angry. I'm just curious as to why you didn't think you could tell me."

Tony had to swallow the mirthless laugh building in his chest, and instead settled for a dark smirk. "You probably already know, and just never wanted to accept it." When Rhodes opened his mouth to protest, Tony waved him off, already looking apologetic. "That's not… I don't blame you, I'm sorry. It's just that… part of me is always going to see you as the guy my dad hired to keep me out of trouble." They were quiet while Rhodey tried to puzzle out the indication of this statement. Taking pity, Tony helped him along. "So I'd know that I'd never… never be safe from him."

His oldest friend closed his eyes for a long, long moment, taking in a deep breath that seemed to rattle in his lungs. He turned away briefly, seeming to collect himself before he could reply. "Tony, you've gotta believe me, I didn't know."

"I know you didn't." His voice was dull and lifeless, contrasting harshly against Rhodey's comparatively broken tone. "Not really, at least. You couldn't have known."

The soldier didn't seem to hear him, scrubbing a hand over his face and giving a breathless, self-deprecating chuckle. "God, man, I'm so sorry. I don't even… what can I say? Hell, it's no wonder you don't trust me, I didn't _do anything_ even when I had some idea…"

For the first time in that conversation, Tony met his eyes, looking every bit as arrogant and unbreakable as ever. "Don't say that. Don't doubt for a minute that I would trust you with my life."

The conviction in his voice, that fact that he was looking him _in the eye_, it all must have counted for something, because Rhodey nodded silently in reluctant understanding.

"Apology accepted, by the way."

* * *

**Super shortness is super short. Hopefully it'll hold you for now.**

**Wonderous reviewers include Hachikonohime, Avengerscrazygal, PlushChrome, Lollypops101, AlienTourist, R.U. Lisnin, YouWILLbealright, Calcifer0703, GirlFromNorth, Full-on-nerd, Harm Marie, Wanderingidealism, lolxxx, Number1Olivia, and one Guest reviewer.**

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